


if sleep is a truce

by seinmit



Category: Sharp Objects (TV)
Genre: Canon Typical Fucked Up Family Relationships, Dreams, F/F, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Post-Canon, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sibling Incest, Somnophilia, Weird POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:07:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26657104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seinmit/pseuds/seinmit
Summary: She's had dreams like this before.
Relationships: Amma Crellin/Camille Preaker
Comments: 4
Kudos: 28
Collections: Darkest Night 2020





	if sleep is a truce

**Author's Note:**

  * For [darlingargents](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlingargents/gifts).



Camille goes to bed. Something about the babyish voice from Amma and the reminder of their mother--it makes her bone tired, a type of exhaustion that reels you. She's been that type of sucking tired before, but she's reasonably confident she hasn't been rugged this time. 

When her head hits the pillow, her breath quivers in her lungs. She feels the movement of the air from the fan like hands on her skin, making her twitch and shiver. She thinks of the clean, sharp hurt of the knife--she could try to cut out the sickness, but at this point, she's fairly sure she's rot all the way down. 

When she wakes up, there's a breakfast tray waiting for her. Amma can't cook and it's the middle of the night, but a bowl of cereal is there, and a cup of hot cocoa. The fats and solids of the liquid have separated slightly, just enough that Camille can imagine the component parts. 

"It'll make you feel better." Amma, sugar sweet. When Camille looks up, she catches a glimpse of Amma crouched in the dark like a predator, eyes bright and intent, but the image dissipates so fast into her slender, upright frame that Camille thinks she may have imagined it. 

Camille takes a sip of her cocoa. It's tepid, but dark and sweet. Amma smiles at her, delighted, as she drinks it down. 

She must go to sleep again. She doesn't remember doing it. Her body reaches up into her throat and chokes her out, dragging her down--instinct taking over in the way that was always trembling under the surface, heedless of her mind. 

Camille dreams. She imagines her tongue grow heavy in her own mouth, slick and wet like an intrusion. She feels it swell, and then as if emanating from her, she feels Amma kiss her. She can feel the heavy weight of her own skull in Amma's hand, how her head flops around unsteadily in an uneven grip. She tastes chocolate and the funk of sleep, the bitterness of the drug that she only imagined. She had known it was there, even if she didn't know at the time. Part of her relaxes into it--it's only a dream. 

She thinks, even as she feels Amma's fingers slip underneath the loose fabric of her sleep shirt. The pads of her fingers burn in the spaces between the scars--she's never been sure if it was psychosomatic, but all feeling in her skin was leeched out of those raised keloid lines. 

Amma's touch is greedy, and she feels her own lips smile with pleasure. She jolts at the brush of Amma's thumb over her own nipple, and feels the echo of a giggle. She's getting wet and it's not surprising; she has a lot of dreams like this. Her response to trauma is resounding banal: humans always get horny, and dreams are a fine pressure release, she's always been told. 

She remembers: she took a psychology class in collage. When people dream, their brain is repeating the patterns of the day, uncoordinated connections between neurons. The experience of the dream is besides the point--it's just your consciousness trying to make sense of something that's not really about consciousness. It's replicating what you've learned, embedding into into your flesh and blood. 

She's had dreams like this before.


End file.
